


Raised from Purrdition

by stone_in_focus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic Disputes, Domestic Fluff, Drabble, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, POV Second Person, Pets, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 00:29:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2046111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stone_in_focus/pseuds/stone_in_focus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Cas comes home, there's a mysterious bulge underneath his clothing. It's not the kind Dean was hoping for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raised from Purrdition

**Author's Note:**

> I was planning on making this a longer drabble, but it's being put on the back burner for now as I'm actually working on a novel-length DeanCas fic. But I may pick this back up once it's done. In the meantime, hope you enjoy the little I do have. :3

In hindsight, it was your fault, really. Telling Cas to surprise you when he asked if you wanted him to pick you up anything at the store. You were still half-asleep when you felt him roll over, going to town on that sweet spot on your neck that had probably already turned a nice ugly shade of purple from last night’s tumble in the sheets. And just when you thought he was about to go south of the border, you’d barely been able to croak out a response (least one that didn’t involve some kinda blasphemy) before the jerk made like lightning and bolted, leaving you with your arm flailing over the edge of the bed and blurting out something about bread and butter pickles last second.

Things got even weirder when you discovered the breakfast spread he’d laid out for you: a tray filled with bacon peanut butter toast (something that had sorta become a staple for you and Cas, and yes, it was goddamn delicious), a few nuked-up sausages, some scrambled eggs, and a brew of that fancy dark roast blend you liked for those days you didn’t bother changing out of your comfy ass robe. It’d even been topped off with a…what was that, a daisy? When the fuck had the dude gone out and found a daisy?

Sam was a big fat load of help, apparently more interested in some cold case files he’d dug up on the Masonville haunting. Which, okay, maybe you’d asked him to, but the dead could wait, being, y’know, dead and all. Cas going ghost on you was what you needed to be worryin’ about, and you reminded Sam that Cas’ disappearing acts had some pretty sucky reviews.

"I don’t know," Sam said, side-eyeing the melting peanut butter as it oozed onto your plate. "He seemed happy to me when he took off this morning. Really happy, actually."

"And that doesn’t seem remotely suspicious to you?"

"Wow. Okay. Are you going through a phase where you put all the pudding in locked containers again?" Dude, that happened the  _one_  time, and only because Dick Roman was bent on shitting on the entire food industry as you knew it. “I told you; he looked like he was on…frickin’ cloud nine or something. Doesn’t exactly spell conspiracy to me, Dean.”

Did he even see how fluffy those eggs were?

"Anyway, you know the guy better than I do. He’s your boyfriend." Swear to God, you were gonna punch that grin right off his smug little face. That was, if you didn’t have to fight so hard to hide the quirk in your own lips.

'Cause, yeah, well…

_Yeah._

It wasn’t until after you and Sam were elbow-deep in sifting through the shitty lens flares for the real evidence that you finally found out what Cas had up his sleeves. Almost literally, judging by the bulge in his trench coat. The  _moving_ bulge in his trench coat. You weren’t liking that glint in his eye, like he was about to have you pull his finger again and pop every last light bulb like it was the greatest thing since bubble wrap.

Then again, maybe making a trip to Home Depot was something you could’ve lived with because someone really needed to tell you that wasn’t a freaking  _meow_  you just heard.

"Dean, I have a surprise."

Which clearly had nothing to do with those pickles you asked for.

"Let me guess: something with a bad attitude that pisses all over the place?"

Your comment didn’t seem to faze Cas in the least bit, apparently more interested in getting those coat buttons undone—an act that usually resulted in the kind of surprise you actually liked. “Exactly why you and Ser Pounce-a-Lot…” oh, shit, it really  _was_  a stupid cat he had stuffed in there, “…should get along just fine.”

First of all, Ser  _Pounce_ -a-Lot? And second, had he actually snuck in some kind of backhanded insult? Because hey, Cas would’ve been cranky, too, had you left him high and dry earlier like he did you. And no one wanted to get you started on Cas being cranky because dude needed to be quarantined when something got up his ass. Other than your dick (that often ended up being the solution).

But speaking of things that needed to be quarantined, Jesus Christ, the rat’s nest burrowed in Cas’ arms looked somethin’ nasty. Like someone had flushed it down the toilet, tossed it under a lawn mower, and then stitched it back together. You only prayed he didn’t actually fork over his wallet for that little mangy ball of fur—you weren’t entirely sure that he knew grocery stores didn’t stock actual cats right next to the chew toys.

"I heard it in one of those video games Charlie seems to like," Cas said, making you realize you’d questioned the name out loud. When you didn’t give him nothing more than a blink, he explained, "It’s very clever, Dean."

You palmed a hand down your face. “Yeah, okay, Sherlock. Did you happen to think through how you’re gonna feed the damn thing? Take it to the vet and get it its shots? That costs money, Cas, and we’re not exactly up to our ears in green. You’re outta juice now, too. Not like you can just zap its nuts off before it starts knocking up every kitty in town.” It wasn’t until you saw Cas’ nose scrunch up that you clued in to what you’d just said. “Wait, is that even a thing?” Oh, God, you hoped it wasn’t a thing.

Cas sighed. “If I were able to perform such an act, I would have found a much better use for it than controlling the feline population.”

And suddenly, you were extremely grateful that your crown jewels had a high value on the Cas stock market because  _yikes._

You clapped your hands together, hoping no one’d noticed the awkward shift in your pants. “Glad we got that cleared up. Still doesn’t tell me where you plan on getting the money to take care of it.”

"I have some funds left over from when I worked for Nora."

"And how long’s that gonna last, huh? It’s not just food and shots you gotta worry about. What about getting it declawed?"

"I’m not subjecting Ser Pounce-a-Lot to something so inhumane."

Pretty sure it wasn’t just your imagination that the room dropped twenty degrees on account of the flinty-eyed glare Cas was giving you. “Well, I’m not subjecting all the stuff in the bunker that’s decades— _centuries_ —old to something that looks like it clawed its way outta hell. Do you even know where that thing’s been? What if it has rabies?”

"I’ve been monitoring him for days now, and he’s shown no signs of an infection. He’s merely malnourished."

Christ, it was like talking to a freakin’ brick wall. Did the dude have an excuse for everything? You grit your teeth, placing your hands at your hips because Cas needed to know you meant business. God knew what else he was dreamin’ up, and better to nip this in the bud before Pied Piper lured home the whole friggin’ zoo. “I don’t like surprises, Cas. You wanna make some kind of executive decision, we talk about it first, ‘kay?”

There was that glare again, only now with the voice to match the air temperature. “You like surprise fellatio. Must I ask for your permission every time–”

Any thought of whipping out a snappy comeback escaped along with the color in your face, your ears burning hot as soon as you heard your brother on the verge of hocking up a loogie behind you. “Sam’s…Sam’s still here.”

If getting angels to wrap the freedom thing around their halo-ringed brains was like teaching a fish poetry, getting them to understand that you just didn’t go blabbing anything in front of anybody was like teaching a shark how to play the kazoo. Pointing that out, though, would’ve only earned you a wallop of a headache after Cas got tangled up in the logistics—”Some creatures are surprisingly musical, Dean”—which, whatever, but you didn’t have the patience for the grand Sea World tour. Safer to stay on subject.

Truth was, you shouldn’t have even been arguing in front of Sam in the first place, but Cas kinda blindsided you with Mr. Bigglesworth. There wasn’t any way of endin’ this pretty, was there?

"We can’t keep it, all right?"

And yeah, you immediately regretted saying as much after seeing his face like you’d just jacked a baby’s candy, but the guy’s out of his mind. “We’re not even here half the time, Cas, and we’re definitely not taking it hunting. Who’s gonna look after it?”

God, you really needed to learn to keep your trap shut. ‘Cause Sam? Sam then got the bright idea to open  _his_  mouth. “He can stay with us. The cat, I mean.”

"Us" meant Sam and a chick named Abby he’d met a few months back on some rugaru case. Wasn’t exactly your type, but she seemed on the level and made Sammy happy, so you weren’t gonna question it. Much. Well, least not enough to make your little brother start thinkin’ that you were still having problems with him moving out of the bunker and finding some kinda life for himself.

'Cause you weren't.

Much.

Guess all things considered, a half-hour ‘cross town wasn’t so bad. Actually gave you more of an excuse to hook up and do, like, actual brotherly stuff together: barbecues, poker, watching the game, lending a hand with the yard work…even went fishing a couple weeks ago. Sam still helped out with research and shit pretty regularly, too. A real Man of Letters, he was shaping up to be. Suited him.

And maybe you even got a little puff in your chest at the thought; kid made you damn proud.

Didn’t mean he didn’t piss you off sometimes, though. Before you could shoot him a death stare, he piped in, “Abby loves animals. She, uh, used to work with wolves and rehabilitate them back into the wild.” All he did was shrug at ya when he did finally glance your direction, but he wasn’t foolin’ you; you could tell that bastard was hiding a sneaky ass smirk. “Just saying it’s an option.”

And Cas…Jesus, Cas was worse, working those puppy dog eyes on you. No. No, no, naw. He couldn’t fucking look at you like that. It was a fucking—fuck. “Ugh, I hate you all… _fine._  But if you think I’m getting anywhere near a pooper scooper–”

"I’ll take care of it, Dean." Why didn’t that sound very reassuring? "I’ve already bought some initial supplies to clean him up and get him settled in. He’ll be back to his former glory in no time, won’t you, Ser Pounce-a-Lot?" Oh, God, the dude was baby-talkin’ the dumb thing. Puke. "Even the proudest beasts of the animal kingdom deserve to be raised from perdition."

Was he seriously comparing you to a cat? He wasn’t seriously comparing you to a cat.

While Eagle Scout bounded off to play animal rescue, you turned back towards Sam, smacking your lips as you took a sip from your cup of joe. “Not a conspiracy, huh?”

Damn straight, you knew ‘im better.

That was when you spotted the unopened jar that had somehow snuck itself onto the table when you weren’t looking: bread and butter pickles. And a pecan pie for good measure.

Yeah, okay. Maybe he knew you better, too.


End file.
